


Grind

by Claudia_flies



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, Grindr, M/M, Online Dating, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sexting, Steve Rogers has a sex drive, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 14:38:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11739117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claudia_flies/pseuds/Claudia_flies
Summary: Steve opens the fancy cardboard packaging and pulls out the underpants. They are bright white and look small, but the girl in the store had convinced him that they were just his size. The waistband is etched with the brand name. Apparently, that’s very important.





	Grind

**Author's Note:**

> A porny pallet cleanser now that we've finished the SBB fic. 
> 
> Thank you again for the speedy beta to Zilia who is currently sitting 2 feet away from me :D

 

Steve opens the fancy cardboard packaging and pulls out the underpants. They are bright white and look small, but the girl in the store had convinced him that they were just his size. The waistband is etched with the brand name. Apparently, that’s very important.

He pulls off his t-shirt and chucks his jeans in the corner. He looks at himself in the mirror. Maybe his current underwear isn't in the latest fashion, but they are comfortable and do the job well enough.

But this isn't about well enough. He wants to look nice. Attractive. And apparently to do that he needs this kind of tiny, tight underwear. He strips and pulls on the new white pair.

They are...very tight, hugging his butt and his junk in a way that Steve isn't totally sure he likes. He adjusts himself, feeling his cock chubbing under his hand.

This is why he’s doing this. It used to be enough, just his own had, just seeing to himself every morning in the shower and every evening in bed. Sometimes in the afternoon too, but it’s starting to not be enough. He wants sex, wants to feel another person against him, with him, in him.

He faces the mirror and snaps off a few photos, careful to not include his face in the pictures.

He sends one that seems okay to Natasha.

_S: This okay?_

It takes a few moments for the little tick to appear and for Natasha to type her reply.

_N: Yes. But take a few more. From the side and back._

He rotates in front of the mirror, snapping photos as he goes, feeling slightly stupid. At least he's getting used to the new underpants. They do look nice; he wouldn’t wear them under the suit, but maybe for everyday use, under his jeans.

He only gets to choose one picture for the app, so he picks the one Natasha had sent back slightly cropped and with some kind of filter on it, with an insistent all-caps message of ‘THIS!’

He types up _‘Looking for a NSA hook up’_ into the description box. He thinks that's what he's supposed to say. His name is Grant on the app. Grant Stevens.

He puts the phone down on the dresser, catching sight of himself in the mirror. Steve feels himself though the tight fabric, rubbing until he can clearly see the outline of his cock through the fabric. He snaps a few more pictures, but doesn’t send those to Natasha. These are just for him, and maybe if he gets some messages that seem suitable, then maybe for them too.

He rubs and jerks himself until his cockhead pushes out from the waistband of the underwear. He pulls back the foreskin, rubbing his thumb over the slick head, and snaps another picture in the mirror.

He sits back on the edge of the bed, tucking the waistband under his balls, already tight and flushed, pulled up into his pelvis. He gives his cock a few long strokes, snapping a few extra pictures.

He puts the phone down.

It feels good, touching himself, sure hands and knowing exactly how to get himself off, but he’s started to want more lately. Fantasies of faceless, nameless men, fucking and being fucked.

He’d mentioned it to Natasha in passing, not in those exact words, but she’d gotten the gist as she always does. Reading between the lines better than anyone.

She’d been the one to suggest grindr, saying that no-strings-attached sex was easier than anything to get, especially in a city the size of New York. He hadn’t looked into it for weeks, putting it off until a few days ago when his own hand just hadn’t felt like enough anymore.

It feels different now. The idea that someone might see those pictures, ask him to send them.

He groans out loud, tugging gently on his balls as he works over the sensitive head, rubbing the glans with his thumb. He comes over his chest and belly, grunting and squeezing his eyes closed, the image of himself reflected in the mirror burned into his mind’s eye.

 

 

When he checks the app the next day, he has over four hundred messages. He texts Natasha with a mild sense of panic. Her response is, as always, a mixture of exasperation and sagely advice.

_N: Just ignore the messages and look for a guy you like the look of._

_S: But what if he doesn't like me?_

He feels mildly stupid writing that, but it’s legitimately what he's feeling.

_N: Seriously, Rogers? Anyone who's on grindr will be begging to fuck you. Just pick a guy. Send a message._

That evening, Steve opens the app again, ignoring the message count, which is now tracking over seven hundred.

Instead, he starts looking through the reams and reams of profile pictures that pop up on the screen, going through the faces and locations. But it all feels a bit terrifying. All those smiling guys just seem too real. Too exposed.

He leaves the phone on the coffee table and goes to make food.

He checks the app one more that night while lying in bed. It's silly really, but just seeing all those faces, all those men like him, is strangely addictive. The way they’re just out there, just being themselves. He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about them.

And then he sees it.

A new profile that's popped up. The picture is just of a massive, hard cock. He knows that the picture is against the rules of the app. (He did read the rules, for once.)

The guy is called James.

Steve clicks on it, opening up the full profile. The first one, he’s looked at. The name is just a coincidence. That’s what he tells himself anyway.

It just says _‘looking for NSA sex’_. There's something nice about the straightforwardness of it, and about the anonymity.

On impulse, Steve sends the guy a message with one of the pictures he took in front of the mirror. His hand on his dick. It’s probably not polite to start out with a pic like that, but considering the guy’s profile, he’s probably expecting that.

In only a few minutes, he gets another picture of the massive cock in return, now grasped by long, thick fingers, and a brief message.

_J: Ass pic?_

Steve kicks off his covers and rolls onto his belly. He pushes down his underwear till he can see his ass and the tops of his thighs in the mirror. He snaps a picture and sends it.

The reply is a close-up picture of the pink, slick tip of a cock, a thumb pressing into the slit. He can see the pre-come, thick and white.

_J: Finger yourself?_

Steve’s breath leaves him in a rush, and he scrambles to the bedside table, pulling out the half-empty bottle of lube. He rolls back into position, kicking off the underwear fully and spreading his knees.

He slicks up his fingers and reaches back, feeling the hot puckered skin around his anus, rubbing the lube all over. He thinks of the man on the other side of the conversation, of him waiting for Steve, waiting for a picture.

He groans, pressing a fingertip inside, that sweet, hot burn. The lube makes everything slick as he slides his finger tip past the tight grip of his sphincter, reaching deeper.

He angles his body, hikes his knee higher on the bed, rucking up the sheets, and takes another picture in the mirror.

_J: More._

Steve shuffles to the edge of the bed, ass facing the mirror, spreading his legs until he can see the tight pink ring of his hole in the glass.

He rubs his fingertips over his hole, watching in the mirror. Adds more lube and goes back, works both fingers in, taking pictures as he goes.

He sends four of them, the last one knuckles deep, fingers spreading himself open.

In return, he gets a series of pictures. Splayed open thighs with a calloused hand wrapped around the base of the cock, cradling the flushed sac of the man’s testicles.

The slick tip of a cock, foreskin pulled back and pre-come pooling in the slit.

Steve’s glad to see that the other man is also uncut, it makes him feel settled, more confident in his own attractiveness. It shouldn’t really matter, but something in it makes him feel like home.

The final picture is of that thick cock and a smattering of come over a flushed belly, trailing down the path of dark hair.

_J: You finish?_

_S: Not yet._

Steve rolls onto his side, trying to keep his fingers inside. Flipping the phone camera over to video, he hits record and places it to rest against the bunched-up covers as his hand comes around his cock.

With the fingers inside him, the tight grip of his shield-calloused hand and the idea of the video being recorded makes him come in less than a minute. He hopes the man won’t mind the low-pitched grunt he can’t help but make as he comes.

It only takes a minute for a reply after he sends the video.

_J: I wanna hear you make that sound in real life._

Steve grins.

_S: Name a time and place._

He waits, but there’s no reply. After fifteen minutes, he puts the phone on the night stand and turns off the light.

 

 

There’s no reply from James in the morning either. Maybe the photos and videos were enough for him, maybe he, like Steve, has things to hide. Maybe it’s better this way. Just an online thing.

He doesn’t open the app that day, too busy, meetings and briefings and he’ll be damned if he lets Tony see him browsing grindr at the Tower. Natasha gives him and his phone a sly smile, but doesn’t say anything.

It’s nearly past nine o’clock when his phone pings with a message.

_J: 10.00 tonight._

The message has a location marker, and it’s not too far away from where Steve is in Park Slope.

Steve knows he should ignore the message, it’s been almost a full 24 hours, and he’s debating with himself as a picture pops up. It’s a hard leaking cock, the base of the shaft and balls circled by a black cock ring.

Steve has barely time enough to pull his leather jacket off the peg as he rushes out the door.

The rumbling of the Harley between his legs doesn't help matters as he makes his way to the location marker in Red Hook. It’s only a fifteen-minute drive, but it feels like hours. His cock and balls and asshole pounding and blood-hot.

The location marker was for a four storey, red brick building. He parks on the side of the road and jogs up the stairs, looking at the list of dilapidated doorbells, and pulls out his phone to send a message.

_S: What number are you?_

He only has to wait a second before a message pops up.

_J: Top floor._

The door is opened by a tall guy in gray sweatpants and nothing else. His dark brown hair is pulled into a sloppy bun at the back of his head and his metal arm gleams in the low light of the doorway.

Steve’s breath freezes in his chest, shock, and horror and hope all merging into a single desperate word.

“Bucky?”

“Fuck!” Bucky swears and tries to slam the door closed.

Steve manages to get his foot in between the door and the frame – thank fuck for motorcycle boots – and lean his palm into the flimsy wood. He tries to think of something to say, anything to get Bucky not to run from him. In the end, what comes out of his mouth is “do you have any idea what it’s like to drive a Harley with a massive hard-on?”

Bucky stares at him, shocked into silence and Steve manages to push the door open, taking any advantage he can. Bucky just stares at him, and then suddenly Steve knows exactly what to say.

“So, are we gonna fuck or not? This was no strings attached, right?”

And before he knows it Steve is being shoved into a wall and the door slams shut. Bucky’s lips are hungry and insistent on his own, and Bucky’s metal arm is already squeezing his ass, pushing into the back pocket of his jeans. Fingers digging into flesh. Steve’s going to have bruises in the morning, or so he hopes, with a dizzy sense of victory. He just hauls Bucky closer, grinds into him, feeling the hard shape of his cock through the fabric of both their pants.

“You wearing it?” he mumbles into the kiss.

Bucky nods, refusing to break the kiss, pressing his tongue insistently into Steve’s mouth. Yanking and pulling on Steve’s t-shirt until he manages to pull it off.

It’s thrown somewhere into the hallway, and he drags Steve away from the door by his belt loops. The apartment isn’t that big, just a wide open space with a mattress in one corner and a kitchen in another. Industrial chic, a design magazine would say, Steve thinks, all that exposed brickwork.

Then he isn’t thinking much at all, because Bucky is tearing his jeans open and shoving him down onto the mattress. Steve bounces on his back, wiggling out of his new underwear, which Bucky gives a quirked eyebrow to as he shoves his sweats down.

He is indeed still wearing the black cock ring, dick hard and flushed against his belly. Leaking at the tip, the flushed head peeking from the foreskin. Steve licks his lips as Bucky drives onto the bed and crawls over Steve, reaching for another kiss.

Skin on skin feels glorious, that hunger and restlessness Steve’s been feeling for months finally quelling. He pulls Bucky even closer, wrapping his legs around the back of Bucky’s thighs, aligning their cocks between their bellies.

Bucky pulls out a tube of lube from between the mattress and the wall. It’s a cheap generic brand, the plastic tacky with use. He squeezes some onto his fingers and wiggles down the bed, shouldering Steve’s legs up and spreading them open. He kisses Steve’s navel as he goes, the jut of his hip and the tip of his cock, and Steve can’t help but arch into the touch, begging wordlessly. Finally, Bucky gets his slick fingers between Steve’s legs, pressing into the cleft of his ass.

He’s rough with it, pads of his fingers working over the puckered skin of Steve’s hole, rubbing and pressing until he’s able to slide in. Straight away with two thick fingers. Steve moans. It burns and hurts and feels good too.

“You’re not gonna break, are you?” Bucky’s panting into his ear, and desperately Steve shakes his head. Pressing back into those questing fingers, hungry for more. Hungry for anything, everything Bucky’s willing to give. And Bucky seems more than willing, working in more lube and a third finger.

Eventually, Bucky taps him on the side of his hip, and Steve takes the hint. Rolling over to his belly, looking at Bucky over his shoulder. His cock is thick and red, engorged from being trapped by the cock ring. So hard now it looks nearly painful.

Steve works his knees under himself, getting his ass in the air in a way that he hopes looks inviting.

From the look on Bucky’s face, he’s more than successful. Bucky’s hands come to rest on his ass, one cool and one hot, spreading him open, looking down at Steve’s wet, worked-over hole with hungry, avid eyes. Steve has to press his face into the sheets to stop himself from wailing out loud as Bucky finally works the head of his cock in, the steady wide pressure of the head forcing him open.

Bucky’s panting, swearing under his breath as he bottoms out. Steve can feel the press of Bucky’s tight balls against his perineum, can’t help imagining how tight and hot they must feel, how desperately Bucky would like to come.

He looks up and see the mirror, placed just so that Steve can see the side profile of their bodies. Can see and feel the slow, aching pull of Bucky's dick as he pulls out and fucks back in.

The noise is almost punched out of him.

“Yea, yeah, that noise I wanna hear,” Bucky grunts as he fucks Steve harder.

He keeps making those sounds, watching the sway and stretch of their bodies in the mirror. The glistening of sweat on Bucky’s back, on the side of his thick thighs. See the way his own toes are curled in the sheets, back arched, sex flush all over his shoulders.

Bucky’s rhythm starts to falter, sharp desperate thrusts, and Steve works his hand under himself, starts to jerk himself off, still watching them in the mirror. He wants to see, to not miss any of it. For a brief moment, he wishes for a camera, something to record the moment, to keep it forever.

Bucky comes with a pained yelp, pressed tight against Steve’s ass, his cock jerking and pulsing inside. It takes Steve a moment longer, working his ass against the dick in him and hand tight over the head of his cock, watching the slack, dazed look on Bucky’s face in the mirror, the hazy pleasure taking over his expression.

Eventually, Bucky pulls out and cleans them a little with the leg of the discarded sweatpants. Lying quietly behind Steve in the sheets. Steve can feel the tension in the air, debates getting up, when Bucky finally speaks.

“Does it have to be no strings attached?”

He sounds cautious, almost scared.

Steve turns to face him, reaching out to push some of the loose strands of hair away from Bucky’s face.

“No, Bucky, it doesn’t.”

He pulls up the covers that have fallen on the floor, wrapping them both up in the sheets and pulling Bucky up to his chest. Fingers gentle over the bumps of his spine.

“It can be whatever you want it to be.”


End file.
